Fatherland

ANY NATION, THE RIGHT HISTORY IS WORTH 100 DIVISIONS.
    Rudi Halder led March inside and up to the third floor. He pushed at the double doors and stood aside to let him walk through. A corridor with stone walls and a Stone floor seemed to stretch forever.
    "Impressive, yes?" In his place of work, Halder spoke in the tone of a professional historian, conveying pride and sarcasm simultaneously. "We call the style mock Teutonic. This, you will not be surprised to hear, is the largest archive building in the world. Above us: two floors of administration. On this floor: researchers' offices and reading rooms. Beneath us: six floors of documents. You are treading, my friend, on the history of the Fatherland. For my part, I tend Clio's lamp in here."
    It was a monkish cell: small, windowless, the walls made of blocks of granite. Papers were stacked on a table in piles half a meter high; they spilled over onto the floor. Books were everywhere—several hundred of them—each sprouting a thicket of markers: multicolored bits of paper, tram tickets, pieces of cigarette carton, spent matches.
    "The historian's mission: to bring out of chaos—more chaos." Halder lifted a stack of old army signals off the solitary chair, brushed the dust off the seat and gestured to March to sit.
    "I need your help, Rudi—again."
    Halder perched on the edge of his desk. "I don't hear from you for months, then suddenly it's twice in a week. I presume this also has to do with the Buhler business? I saw the obituary."
    March nodded. "I should say now that you are talking to a pariah. You may be endangering yourself merely by meeting with me."
    "That only makes it sound more fascinating." Halder put his long fingers together and cracked the joints. "Go on."
    "This is a real challenge for you." March paused, took a breath. "Three men: Buhler, Wilhelm Stuckart and Martin Luther. The first two dead; the last, a fugitive. All three senior civil servants, as you know. In the summer of 1942, they opened a bank account in Zürich. At first I assumed they'd put away a hoard of money or art treasures—as you suspected, Buhler was up to his armpits in corruption— but now I think it's more likely to have been documents."
    "What sort of documents?"
    "Not sure."
    "Sensitive?"
    "Presumably."
    "You've got one problem straight away. You're talking about three different ministries—Foreign, Interior and General Government, which isn't really a ministry at all. That's tons of documents. I mean it, Zavi, literally— tons."
    "Do you have their records here?"
    "Foreign and Interior, yes. General Government is in Krakau."
    "Do you have access to them?"
    "Officially—no. Unofficially . . ." He wobbled a bony hand. "Perhaps, if I'm lucky. But Zavi, it would take a lifetime simply to look through them. What are you suggesting we do?"
    "There must be some clue in there. Perhaps there are papers missing."
    "But this is an impossible task."
    "I told you it was a challenge."
    "And how soon does this 'clue' need to be discovered?"
    "I need to find it tonight."
    Halder made an explosive sound—of mingled incredulity, anger, scorn. March said quietly, "Rudi, in three days' time, they're threatening to put me in front of an SS Honor Court. You know what that means. I have to find it now. "
    Halder looked at him for a moment, unwilling to believe what he was hearing, then turned away, muttering, "Let me think . . ."
    March said, "Can I have a cigarette?"
    "In the hallway. Not in here—this stuff is irreplaceable."
    As March smoked he could hear Halder in his office, pacing up and down. He looked at his watch. Six o'clock. The long hallway was deserted. Most of the staff must have gone home to begin the holiday weekend. March tried a couple of office doors, but both were locked. The third was open. He picked up the telephone, listened to the tone and dialed nine. The tone changed: an outside line. He called Charlie's number. She answered at once.
    "It's me. Are you all right?"
    She said, "I'm fine. I've discovered something—just a tiny thing."
    "Don't tell me over an open line. I'll talk to you later." He tried to think of something else to say, but she had replaced the receiver.
    Now Halder was on the telephone, his cheerful voice echoing down the flagstone hall. "Eberhard? Good evening to you . . . Indeed, no rest for some of us. A quick question, if I may. The Interior Ministry series . . . Oh, they have been? Good. On an office basis? ... I see. Excellent. And all that